


i needed you to run through my veins (like disease)

by thequeenofokay



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenofokay/pseuds/thequeenofokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone as miserable, intoxicated and lovesick as Francis shouldn't be left unsupervised.</p><p>// in which a lot of mistakes are made, and most of them end in disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i needed you to run through my veins (like disease)

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: don't own anything blah blah blah
> 
> this started out as a sort of spec-fic/francis's-life-has-fallen-apart fic and it escalated from there to an angst fest/fluff'n'angst. idek. it didn't go where i was expecting.
> 
> title from "winter" by daughter.

Francis feels, all things considered, he has the right to be a bit reckless.

Bash had been reckless, before he’d stolen everything from Francis.

Mary is reckless, even though she is queen. She does stupid things, did such a stupid thing…

He can’t think of Mary. It makes his chest ache every time he does. He takes a swig of beer to dull the pain.

Mary.

He can’t stop thinking of her.

She’s hurt him. She knows it, too. She gives him a look, every time she sees him. A pleading, desperate look. There are so many apologies written into it. If he sees her too many times he might just give in. He won’t give in.

So he avoids her. He leaves the castle for days at a time without guards (much to his mother’s despair). Every time he comes back he is a little more drunk, and Bash and Mary both look a little more haggard.

He’d like to say it makes him feel better, but honestly, he probably looks just as bad. He feels just as bad. He hates seeing them standing side-by-side in the throne room. His brother has everything that once was his. He has his crown and he has Mary. He has Mary. He hardly sees them apart. He wishes they would at least have the decency to look miserable at each other’s presence, but he feels like they are more miserable in his presence. It is when they forget he’s there that they look something like happy.

 

 

 

****

 

Francis doesn’t make good decisions when he’d been drinking. One such bad decision comes after a particularly gruelling session of Mary-Bash Togetherness Flaunting. Mary had smiled at Bash all through their morning of wedding planning.

She hadn’t looked at Francis once. She’d avoided his gaze, her plight for forgiveness abandoned.

And Francis won’t be ignored.

His plan for revenge is a stupid one. But it is also based on Mary’s own actions once before, so he feels it has some weight.

His plan may or may not involve snogging one of Mary’s ladies.

(Someone as miserable, intoxicated and lovesick as Francis shouldn’t be left unsupervised.)

 _Which_ lady is the most difficult part of Francis’s plan.

Kenna had been his father’s mistress. She was out of the question on the grounds some kind of second-hand incest.

Greer is never around. Francis suspects she has someone secret. He knows the signs.

That leaves him Lola. Already still a little bitter over the loss of Colin, and with terribly concealed feelings for Bash. She is perfect. (Not _perfect_. Not _Mary_.)

The proper etiquette would be to request her presence with a chaperone and slowly court her. But that is far too tedious. Especially since by the morning he will have realised how stupid the plan is. The better option, Francis decides, would be to turn up at her room with strong whisky and sad stories.

It is exactly what he does.

“Lola…” He smiles when she opens her door, leaning against the doorframe (mostly to keep himself upright).

“Francis?” She looks confused. “What are you doing here?”

He shows her the bottle. “Drink?” he suggests. He can see her thinking it over. Eventually, she nods and lets him pass. He falls onto the couch beneath the window and she sits next to him, a little cautious.

“What can I do for you?” she asks. So proper.

“Drink?” he repeats. He probably sounds like such an idiot. Not a prince at all. But then, he isn’t really, any more, is he?

Again, she thinks for a moment. “Sure.” She pours some into a goblet for herself and hands back the bottle. It would be ladylike, but she downs it all in one go.

They laugh together (it’s the drink), and rant together (it’s the deep bitterness both hold). She must know why he is here. He hasn’t exactly tried to hide it. They are closer than appropriate, and alone.

He kisses her, and she tastes like whisky. She doesn’t respond immediately, but when she does it’s good. As good as you can get when you’re both pretty damn tipsy. She breaks away and looks at him for a moment.

“Are you just doing this to get back at Mary?” she asks.

He groans internally. He’d hoped she was a little tipsier than that. Maybe it’s just him, then. “Yes,” he says, because he can’t lie when he’s drunk (Olivia learned that).

“Okay,” she says, and kisses him again, pulling him to her.

 

****

 

By morning, Francis deeply regrets a lot of things. Mostly the headache that he has now. He’s not sure if he regrets kissing Lola. He’d like to he really would, but it was probably worth it.

And as he had planned, Lola’s integrity wins out and she tells Mary. She storms into his room, doing his head no good at all.

“What do you think you’re _doing_?” she yells at him.

He shrugs. Too sore for this.

“You can’t just kiss my ladies to get back at me!”

A smile spreads across his face. “Why not?” he asks, sweetly. “I was only taking inspiration from you. Remember, down by the lake when you kissed my brother to get back at me.”

She glares at him, anger masking pain, and swishes away  in a sea of red skirts without another word. He doesn’t see her again until that evening, when he has the unfortunacy to pass her in the halls. With Bash, her arm in his.

She stops. The pair stand in front of a window, and Francis would really like to think that it just _happens_ to be the exact spot where he told her that he was hers, but he knows it’s no coincidence. “Bash,” Mary says, not quietly, turning to face his half-brother. “I want you to know, my heart is open. Francis has moved on, and so must I.” She looks up at Bash with big, soft eyes. And then she places a hand on his cheek. And kisses him deeply.

Francis wants to be sick. It is his turn to storm into her room this time, later that night. “You…” he begins, furious. She looks at him demurely, brushing her hair. She’s in her nightgown, a silk white dress. He is forced to stop for a minute, remember why he is so angry. “As if you haven’t hurt me enough.”

“Bash and I will be married one day. I do not wish to have a marriage like your parents do.” She catches herself, he can see her do it. “Like your parents did.” No, now they are getting an annulment, and Diane will be queen.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve ruined?” he spits at her.

“Francis…” Her expression draws in to one of sadness. A part of him that he is desperately trying to kill wants to go to her, kiss her, tell her it will be alright. But it won’t, and he can feel his throat contracting, so he turns around and leaves before he says or does anything else he’ll regret.

 

 

 

****

 

They turn it into a childish, stupid, hurtful game. A spiralling cycle of jealousy. He kisses Lola, she kisses Bash. He hurts her, she hurts him. It is petty, and does neither any good, but they are too far in to stop.

Lola is good company, really. He only kisses her in front of Mary, but he spends time with her anyway. They talk. They talk, and it isn’t always rants about their bitterness like the first time. She becomes his friend. His father even discusses marriage between them in the future (since he’s now no longer the future king, and marrying him off to a queen isn’t necessary. Lola has money and land, and that will do). He wouldn’t mind it, he decides. It wouldn’t be hell, not like marrying him to someone he doesn’t know.

Francis almost feels bad for his half-brother. He knows that Bash’s feelings for Mary are genuine. Maybe, he thinks once or twice, she has grown to feel the same way. But Lola tells him that if anything, they have grown apart. She says there are days when she won’t see him. Then again, she says there are days when they spend all their time together. Discussing business. That makes him feel a little better. And he doesn’t feel bad for Bash. Not really. So Bash’s feelings are unreciprocated? It’s not like he lost his crown, inheritance and fiancee all in one day.

Francis stops drinking. Mostly because, while his mother has lost most of her influence, she can still command the servants to refuse him. And Catherine de’ Medici is more threatening than a kind of pathetic former crown prince, apparently. She will do anything to prevent his death, even him drinking himself to his grave. He wishes she wouldn’t, though, because he feels like it would hurt less than seeing Mary and Bash together.

His father has even set a date. He wants England, and he wants it soon. And Mary is his pawn that will give it to him.

(But doesn’t he see? Mary isn’t a pawn, Mary is a queen, the most powerful piece on the board. So strong. And his father is the king, the one who wants everything but needs others to get it. And Bash is the knight, then, useful in protecting but with its limits. His mother is a queen too, there is no doubt about that. Francis isn’t sure where he comes into that metaphor. But he is probably a piece that has already been taken.)

Francis really doesn’t want to go the wedding. He doesn’t want to think about watching Mary and Bash dance, Mary and Bash…

He feels a little sick at the thought of what comes after the dancing.

Maybe he’ll find somewhere else to go for the day. He really doesn’t think he can bear it.

 

 

 

****

 

The week of the wedding arrives, sopping wet and miserable. It’s fitting, Francis thinks. His only consolation is that Mary looks more miserable than ever (which in turn makes Bash more miserable). And that’s a terrible consolation.

His own wedding is also finalised for a few months time. After it, he will be leaving the palace for his own estate near Paris. Away from Mary, the source of his unhappiness. He should feel good about that, but he can’t bring himself to.

His father, mercifully, has let him leave for a while, on the grounds of supervising the work being done on his new home. They both know the truth, but Francis thinks his father might feel some kind of pity for him. He isn’t Henry’s favourite son. He never was, and now he never will be. But he is his son, and that seems to count for just a little bit.

He packs a few things. He doesn’t need much. Does he have to come back? And witness Mary’s marital bliss, which she will insist on parading in front of him until he kisses Lola and she leaves, expression sour. It’s become almost a ritual.

He hears noise outside his room. The page saying something. He’d told the man not to let anyone in, but the door bursts open anyway and he knows that it can only be one person.

“Mary.” It’s months since she last had a conversation with him that wasn’t so civil and cold it was painful, let alone come into his rooms like this.

“You’re leaving.” She’s not angry, not this time.

“Yes.” He laughs humorlessly. “Well, do forgive me if I don’t come to your wedding.”

“You’re not coming?” She repeats. She clings to the shawl around her shoulders. She looks like a little girl. She looks like she did when they were seven and he wouldn’t play. Upset, because she thinks she has done something wrong. This time, it is not just that he wants some time to himself though. This time, she has done something wrong, he supposes. (But it was so long ago, and he just wishes he could forgive her. But he can’t.)

“No, Mary. I’m not coming.” Saying her name feels wrong, like he’s saying the name of a stranger.

“Why?”

He laughs again at than. “Do you have to ask? You’re marrying my brother and I…” He trails off. There are many ends to that sentence, but he knows the one he will end up saying is _love you_.

“And you are marrying one of my best friends,” she counters. “Will I be allowed to disappear the week of your wedding, too?”

“I imagine so. You’ll be a queen and a princess.” It comes out like an insult. Once he was her equal now he feels like nothing.

Her eyes are full of pleading again. “Francis…” she murmurs, taking a step towards him, and then another, and with every step his thoughts become a little cloudier. “Francis, I’m so sorry.” She reaches up to touch his cheek, and he doesn’t flinch.

He hasn’t added to his list of bad decisions in a while, and he almost forgets that he’s making one when he closes the space that remains between them and kisses her. She is quick to respond, and he can’t help but dig his fingers into her hair like he never thought he would again. Her hand circles round his wrist, refusing to let him go.

It is not forgiveness. It is a kiss laced with pain and longing and regret.

It is a kiss none the less, and neither of them can bring themselves to stop. They break when they run out of oxygen, and his breaths come out as her name.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She meets his eyes. “I love you.” She kisses him again, and he is glad, because talking hurts.

They move towards the bed. It is an unconscious action, but as they fall against the mattress he can forget for a moment that anything is wrong.

This time when he wakes it is not to bright morning sunlight and promises of forever, but empty sheets.

 

 

 

****

 

The wedding is pushed back, with Mary claiming illness. Francis doesn’t believe it. He visits her, and she is sitting at her desk with a book. She jumps guiltily when she hears the door.

“Oh,” she says, when she sees him. “I thought it would be someone coming to check my condition.”

“No,” he says. “Just me.”

She smiles. It is the first genuine smile he has seen for months. Since… since the morning before she left.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your wedding tomorrow?” He knows she’s not, but he wants her reasons.

“No. Two weeks, to give me time to… recover.”

“Recover?”

She nods, not meeting his gaze. He draws up a chair and sits down beside her.

“Mary,” he begins, “why are you not getting married tomorrow?”

She sighs, staring at her lap. “Call it cold feet.”

“Why?” Maybe it’s a stupid question.

“Because I need to sort out how feel,” she sighs, her fingers inching towards his on the desk. “I can’t marry you. Nothing can change. I can’t let you die.”

“Mary. That prophecy is _nonsense_. It is nothing but superstition, and even if it did come true, don’t you think I would have wanted to have a short life with you instead of this?” he asks. “This is no life at all.”

But she just shakes her head. “It’s too late now. It doesn’t matter.”

 

 

 

****

 

She keeps managing to push back the wedding. Excuses like illness and waiting for her mother. He keeps visiting her. The visits usually end in the same way. He is forgiving her without realising. Slowly but surely bitterness is fading. He will never be able to let go of the feeling completely, but time and kisses have a way of dulling pain that even alcohol couldn’t.

A month or so after her intended wedding date she really does get sick. Properly sick. Vomiting up everything she eats.

“What is it?” he asks her, sitting beside her on her bed. “Is the physician worried?” He worries, he can’t help it. He knows there are hundreds of illnesses that could kill her and he won’t let her go that easily again.

“The physician…” Mary begins, and swallows, gripping his hand. “I know what’s wrong.”

“Yes?”

Her spare hand goes to her abdomen. He thinks she might be going to throw up again, but she doesn’t move from her place beside him.

“We’re going to need to talk to Bash,” she says. It doesn’t comfort him. “I… am pregnant.” This time she does throw up, retching into the pail at her feet.

It takes a minute for his shock to register. “What?” is all he can think to ask.

She laughs shakily, wiping her mouth with a rag. “Well, it was always a risk, wasn’t it? We weren’t exactly careful.”

“No,” he agrees. No, they were reckless idiots. This was bound to happen.

Bash is fetched. He reacts to the news first with shock and then a laugh. “Has my fiancee been unfaithful?” he asks, joking. He doesn’t look too upset, everything considered. Maybe he thought it was inevitable.

Francis looks a touch ashamed, and Mary grimaces. “What do we do?” she asks, one arm still wrapped around her middle protectively.

“Well, nobody is going to believe it’s mine if you push out a little blonde thing, are they?” Bash smirks, and Mary wrinkles her nose a little at the way he puts it. “Well, I’m won’t be the one telling father that you two have ruined all his plans.”

A panicked look crossed Mary’s face as she realises what Bash might be suggesting. “I can’t marry him! I can’t, marry you, Francis.” She gripped his hand tighter than he would have thought him capable. “I won’t have my child growing up without his father. I won’t.” _So strong_.

“Then marry me anyway,” Bash says. Francis looks at his brother, and he knows that his words are him being the rational, sensible one in the conversation (how did they end up here, with Bash as the sensible one?). “We’ll call it mine. No one will have to know but the three of us. And the child, I suppose.” He pauses, looking at Mary. “I don’t doubt that our marriage will be loveless, and you two will continue your affair, but I can make my peace with that.”

 

 

 

****

 

Mary and Bash are married as quickly as possible, and Francis does bring himself to attend. The bedding ceremony is abandoned on account of Mary’s ill health, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t please him to no end.

Lola stands by his shoulder. Their own wedding is barely weeks away, but they are no longer leaving court. She knows the truth. They had to tell her, they realised. Bash volunteered himself for the job with a little too much enthusiasm, and he’s been staring at her all night (but his bride doesn’t notice, she is elsewhere).

They are all going to have his parents’ marriage, Francis realises. None of them faithful, but maybe all of them happy.

 

 

 

****

 

James is a beautiful boy, a healthy baby, who luckily takes more after his mother than his father. Francis thinks his own father will suspect James’s true parentage. The boy has Medici eyes, there’s no doubt about it. But anything Henry does could threaten his hold on England, as the English Queen Mary dies barely days after her cousin’s son is born, and Mary makes her claim as agreed.

James will grow up with war, but he will grow up to be strong.

 

 

 

****

 

It’s funny, Francis thinks. Ironic. There are people who say that James can never rule three countries as he is the son of a bastard with the fortune to be legitimised. But it is James who is the bastard really, and he’ll rule half of Europe anyway.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i know this ending maybe isn't... satisfying. but i didn't really want it to be, because that's kind of the point? they're not getting a satisfying ending in history, so i feel this shouldn't have one either.


End file.
